


it's the end, friend of mine

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (partially since chap 2 and 3 are not epistolary), Angst with a Happy Ending, Epistolary, First Kiss, First Time (only implied), Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, POV John, Post-TSoT, Sherlock distances himself, john is in love with sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-05 05:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11570853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: So on this day when I made a vow to love somebody that was not you, know that I am making one just for you now as the clock ticks the early hours of the morning: I am yours. I am, ever was and ever will be yours. In bitterness and in tears, in waiting and in regrets.I should have been there for you without ambiguity, and for that I am eternally sorry.To you, and only you, dear friend,From a friend of yours.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "dear friend, I cannot tell the reasons why we started well  
> good time, give me some wine when you open the door  
> you seem hurt, don't try to speak a word to me  
> what on earth could really go wrong with you and me?
> 
> time seems to be over where we could simply say I love you  
> now you opened the door  
> I feel cold  
> why can't I hold you in my arms  
> told you that life is short but love is old  
> it's the end, friend of mine"
> 
> \- Sibylle Baier, It's the end
> 
> This work has been inspired by Sibylle Baier's song, "It's the end", that you can find on youtube. 
> 
> This fanfic is epistolary: John writes a letter first and Sherlock answers after. Between each exchange there is a piece of John's writing (which is slightly more poetic as I wanted to try out a different writing style than the usual friend-to-friend letter exchange), marked "Unsent", since John is not sending these letters to Sherlock. 
> 
> The work is currently complete but the last chapter and the epilogue still need some editing, but they should arrive during the weekend. Only the first chapter will be epistolary. 
> 
> The usual disclaimer: English is not my first language so sorry about any mistakes that are still in there!

**May 4 th**

 

[00:03] JW: Sherlock, where are you?

 

[00:43] JW: Should I be worried?

 

[01:10] JW: Seriously, where are you?

 

[01:13] JW: Molly said she saw you leaving early. You know, the best man is usually supposed to stay ‘til the end of the wedding.

 

[0:14] JW: You might even have caught my tie.

 

[01:15] JW: Greg got it. But I doubt the whole wedding superstition will come true for him because of the divorce and everything, but still.

 

[01:21] JW: Sorry, that was a little bit inconsiderate.

 

[01:37] JW: Anyway. Where are you? If you don’t answer in five I’m phoning Mycroft.

 

[01:38] SH: Mycroft called about a job. I’m leaving immediately for Serbia.

 

[01:39] JW: Serbia…? How long?

 

[01:41] SH: Apparently there is still an extension of Moriarty’s web that has surfaced over there. I don’t know how long it will take.

 

[o1:44] JW: Do you want me to go with you?

 

[01:45] SH: On your wedding night? Not your best decision yet, John.

 

[01:46] JW: Right.

[01:48] JW: Just text me when you get there.

 

[01:57] SH: I will.

 

* * *

 

 

[02:15] JW: I swear if something happens to him you’re a dead man, Mycroft Holmes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**May 6 th**

 

[22:43] SH: I have to go undercover, so I’m leaving my phone behind. I don’t have a steady address here but you can write to the village’s post office at Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

 

I fucked up big time.

I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

About what you said. Earlier.

 

Or maybe I did, but I blamed it on a foolish glimpse of hope, the alcohol in my blood and the exact position your knee was in before I put my hand on it.

Look who’s a hopeless fool now?

It’s not even been five hours and I regret everything. I should have run off with you to Serbia, or even to the end of the world if you had asked. If only you had asked. But look at me now: utterly, terribly, sadly married.

She’s waiting in bed while I’m writing a letter to you that you will never see, only to take of my shoulders the pain of four long years of shared silence. She’s waiting in the bed and that’s not the place I want to be, five hours after I had swore it would be the place I would stay to the end of my days.

Know that there is no such place but by your side.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry about everything but especially about the fact that you did not want to confide in me earlier. I’m sorry it felt unrequited when it was – _is_ – in fact the very opposite. It is fully my fault, not because I never said anything but because you did not feel safe enough for telling me. 

And now you’re gone, and I don’t know when you are coming back – if you are every going to. In any way I do not think you will come back the same, and I do not think I will stay unchanged by your absence.

So on this day when I made a vow to love somebody that was not you, know that I am making one just for you now as the clock ticks the early hours of the morning: I am yours. I am, ever was and ever will be yours. In bitterness and in tears, in waiting and in regrets.

 

I should have been there for you without ambiguity, and for that I am eternally sorry.

To you, and only you, dear friend

From a friend of yours

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**May 10 th**

 

Hello there,

It’s been an age since I’ve written letters to anybody, so you’ll excuse my messy handwriting (I’m a doctor after all!), but if it’s what it takes to stay in contact…

I’m sorry about the wedding – that you left early, that is, but I guess that when work calls you can’t resist it. It’s still your top priority, of course. I know the feeling, but well, now I have Mary.

The honeymoon is lovely, the place you chose for us (you know, the one in Surrey), is wonderful. It’s peaceful and quiet and we sit all day long and do nothing but enjoy ourselves. You’d find it tremendously boring.

I’m sorry that we did not get a proper goodbye, but I guess you had to leave quickly. You probably can’t say much about what you’re doing but how’s Serbia? Give me details – I’ll enjoy having something to read in the evening.

I hope Serbian post works well enough so you won’t receive this letter in two months or something like that.

Good luck with the thing you’re working on!

 

John

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

**May 18 th**

 

John,

I received your letter yesterday. The man at the post office gave it directly to me, as I cannot disclose my current address by any means of communication. I hope you understand.

Serbia has it charms but as you know I am not here for the sights. I started working on the special project I told you about the other day: the process is long and tremendously slow, so I cannot confirm any date of return. The probability that it would take less than three months is definitely low.

There is not much I can say about what I am currently doing. I can only assure you that you would have been quickly bored as for the moment things take time to develop, but I have been asked not to rush in anything, as much as I hate it. Patience is not my strongest suit.

The village is small and boring: there are exactly 687 inhabitants, and I now know all of them by name. There is one main street with a small grocery store and the post office.

 

That is all for the moment.

 

How is Mary doing? Tell her I said hi.

 

Sherlock

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend of mine,

You know exactly what to say to pain me – to kill me, even. That’s not common knowledge, that’s something only you would know how to do. Nobody has that power upon me but you.

When you ask about her I can hear the bitterness in your voice and I do not know who, between you and I, is hurting more.

Of course she’s doing fine. She’s wearing a ring I did not fully intend for her and a child I did not wish to have – she could not be doing better.

We are back at the flat and she sees that I am rather absent-minded these past days, yet she blames it on the aftermath of our honeymoon, thinking that I regret leaving the cottage when the only thing I regret is leaving you.

I am back in London yet you are not here, and so I lie awake at night thinking about Baker Street’s empty rooms and the dust that slowly settles on the furniture and on our life together. I am back in London in a place I cannot call home.

 

From a friend of yours,

still waiting

 

 

* * *

 

  

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**May 21 st **

 

Sherlock,

 

I am glad to have some news even if you can’t tell me a lot about what you’re currently doing. I hope the action will kick in soon so that you will have something to do, but don’t forget to stay safe. Is there a doctor at your village? Do you at least remember how to do stiches? And please use only sterilized tools: you don’t want to catch an infection.

Seriously, tell me if you have any injury, I’ll be over there as quickly as I can.

 

We are finally back in London and I’ve started working again at the clinic so life is pretty busy around here. Mary is starting to show and the hormones are kicking in. She will get her pregnancy leave soon. We know it’s still quite early but she’s getting tired of the job. I still can’t believe what’s happening, everything is going so fast.

By the way, Molly and her boyfriend broke up, but that had been coming since the wedding. “Meat dagger”, do you remember that? I can’t say that I’m unhappy – the bloke was definitely something – but since I’m not you I tried to show a little bit of empathy. Not that I see her that often since I have no reason to go at Bart’s anymore.

 

Anyway, sorry about the rambling, but I wondered you’d like to have some news from home.

 

How are you doing over there? Any interesting murders yet?

 

John

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**June 1 st**

 

John,

 

Thank you for your concern – yes, I do remember how to do stitches, after all someone taught me well. Although you do not need to worry: for the moment things are still very calm. There was one interesting break-in and I am investigating the probability of the organization’s involvement, but nothing major.

 Good to know that everyone is doing fine. The clinic must be happy to have you back. As for Molly, she will quickly recover from it, knowing her. I deduce that it will take no longer than two weeks and three days from now, and as you know, I am never wrong.

 

I have to go now I may have some news about the break-in.

 

Sherlock

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

Dear friend of mine,

Sometimes I think about the future. On these rare occasions my brain gets high on impossible hope and improbable dreams and I understand that you are my drug of choice.

What can I do?

I cannot leave the child behind. I made a vow: I have responsibilities now and a promise that I cannot break. I have to stay for the child, and for her, because she’s the second-best thing after you. And I cannot have you.

Sometimes I think about divorce, after the child is born, and then finding you again and telling you everything. I wonder if you seize the importance of everything that has been left unsaid. There is quite a lot.

But then again you are gone and I feel that you are trying to tell me something. You left me for your work just like I left you for someone else, and maybe things should stay like that. Maybe we are supposed to live apart. Maybe there is not a single instance where we belong together, and maybe we have to settle for that truth.

What can I do?

I hide these letters in a place she won’t find. Because of what I write, of course, yet I do not feel guilty about my words. I feel guilty about her, not about you. That could never be.

Sometimes I wish she would discover these and demand to never see my face again, but I do not think things would be as easy as that. She is extremely possessive, something I never saw before the wedding. I hear our facades crumbling away as we both pretend to be people we never were and will never be.

With you there was nothing to pretend about – only things to stay quiet about. It is not the same in my opinion, but now pretending is all that’s left.

 

A friend of yours

who’d like to stop pretending (one day)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**June 5 th**

 

Sherlock,

Any news? Any chance you know when you’ll be coming back? I’m beginning to miss our adventures, not that I do not like how Mary and I are settling into married (and suburban) life, but the excitement of detective work I something I always looked forward to.

 

I saw Bainbridge the other day – you know the soldier we saved that day from the Mayfly man? He got out of the hospital last week and has fully recovered from the incident. He told me he intended to go back to work any time now. I said that we both wished him good luck for the future – I know I shouldn’t suppose what you’d say, especially since I know you wouldn’t exactly word it like that but I guess it was the right thing to do. He asked me a little bit about you and I only said that you were out of the country at the moment. I don’t want to blow your cover, of course. 

Meeting him made me think about the Mayfly man case again. Do you remember anything of my stag night? We should go out again when you come back, and you’ll tell me everything. About Serbia, that is.

 

I’ve also seen Lestrade for the first time since the wedding. He had a lot of work to do since and the kids to take care of, with the divorce and all that. He’s not doing so badly but he could definitely use your help on one or two cases – you know how desperate he gets. He offered me to take a look at some files but I refused: I am not the one and only consulting detective after all, I doubt I could help much.

 

It is all for now, I can’t wait to have news from you.

John

 

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**June 20 th**

 

John,

I am sorry about the delay in my answer: I recently experienced a break-through and I could not stay at the same location for very long. I can’t disclose any details but I am back at the village now. The project I was dealing with seems to be bigger than I originally thought so it might take longer than I estimated.

Life at the village itself is quite peaceful and boring. I do not meddle with the crowd but the local postman knows me well by now and he is miraculously not as annoying as the average human being. He does not talk much, which is fine by me.

Unfortunately I do not remember much about your stag night but for the case we “worked” on. And I think I should refuse your invitation, after all, I can’t hold my alcohol very well and it makes me act in strange ways that I later regret.

 

I am glad to know that everybody is doing fine.

 

Sherlock

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend of mine,

I get the idea, you know? I had my fair share of mistakes to know how someone acts in order to cover one.

And I do not know if you ever wanted this but I can feel that I am your mistake. We can’t get it right but when it sounds like it is you who’s choosing that I might accept it more easily.

I would simply like to stay your best friend. I can do that. I really can.

 

I have to stay with her, dear friend, I’m sorry but I really do.

 

From a friend of yours

who can only be that

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**June 27 th**

 

Sherlock,

There is no problem for the delay since we’re quite busy around here too. I’m glad to know that you’re still alive even if Mary keeps on telling me that I worry too much.

About her: she started showing quite a bit by now, and we’re slowly getting started on all that baby stuff. We went out to buy the crib and all the basics, but we still need a color for the room, and we can’t agree on one. I’m not a fan of the blue/pink combo (we don’t even know if it’s a girl or a boy yet, it’s too soon), but I don’t have any ideas so we still won’t settle on a compromise. Care to pitch in some ideas?

 

It’s good to know that you’ve made at least one friend over there. Do try to keep this one?

And all right about the bar thing – not my best idea, definitely – but you have to promise me a case when you’ll be back: I’m missing these.

 

Take care!

 

John

 

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**July 18 th**

 

Sherlock,

Is everything all right? I don’t know if my letter got stuck in the post somewhere in Serbia but I haven’t heard from you in quite a while. 

Here everything is the same. There was a flu outbreak at the clinic yet that was probably the most exciting event that happened since you left. I’ll wish for chicken pox next week.

 

Please do answer quickly.

 

John

 

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**July 27 th**

 

Sherlock,

Mycroft says that you’re apparently all right, yet I seriously doubt the amount of effort he puts into finding out what you’re currently up to. 

Do you get these letters or are you lost somewhere in the woods? Seriously, please answer me.

 

John

 

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

_The paper is old and the handwriting is messy._

 

**August 3 th**

 

John,

There have been some new developments. Can’t exactly tell you about it.

 

Yellow.

 

Sherlock

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend who likes getting me on edge,

I cannot fucking believe that you made me wait one whole bloody month before giving me news. For a moment I considered taking the first plane to Serbia to find you, only to be reminded that we’re not in that kind of movie. Your lovely brother kept affirming that you were fine, and I wanted to believe him because if something had happened to you… I have the dreadful feeling that it would be my fault. And that’s something I would never forgive myself.

Now you’ve written back and I can count the words on my fingers. Can’t you see that I’m thirsty for your words? Yet you barely write and I feel like a man lost in the desert.

My wife’s been in a mood lately, constantly asking me why I worry about a man who doesn’t care and who’s ran off without me: I don’t think the answer would please her but I feel it constantly on the tip of my tongue, ready to leave my lips at the first sign of weakness. She goes around snapping at me, high on pregnancy hormones and legitimate doubts about my sincerity. I cannot be hers when I was ever so fully yours, and I think it shows a little bit more than I initially thought so. She reads every letter I write to you, and every letter I receive, and it’s like an incomplete puzzle since she never found these letters that I will never send. Privacy’s fading away, and I am glad I have somewhere to confide in, even if it is not to anybody but me. I have a lot to confess to myself, starting with the fact that I am already too late.

So I am going around in circles every day waiting for you to write back, wondering if you still want to, if you still want that link even if it’s through pieces of paper and ink stains. Every day I try not to overthink _us_ , I try not to let my own brain eat itself because of the worry, the regret and the insanely boring life I am living without you. And at night, I try not to dream about you.

 

From a friend of yours,

who is miserably failing to

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**August 12 th**

 

Sherlock,

I’m glad to know that you’re fine. I know you can’t give me details about the project you’re working on, but can I at least know how you’re holding up? How’s the old man at the post office? Have you met anybody else? What’s the place you’re living in like?

 

I’ve been to the pub with Lestrade last Saturday, Mary was a little bit annoyed about me leaving her alone at home while she’s pregnant but Greg is currently falling apart both at work and at home, with the divorce and all. Of course I can’t help him much with work but he’s eager to have you back in London as he told me. I’m too, actually. I miss the cases. I can’t wait for you to come back. You still don’t have any idea when that would be?

 

Also – yellow? Is that code for something?

 

John

 

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**August 19 th**

 

John,

I am indeed doing fine. The work I am doing is taking much longer than expected so I have no idea when I might come back. Life at the village is generally calm but work makes it a lot less dull. The old man at the post office is the same as always, and no, I haven’t met anyone else.

About the cases – are you sure you’ll still want to run around once the child is born? I figured you’ll have a family to take care of, a life that does not mix well with detective work.

 

Yellow was an idea for the nursery room.

 

How is Mary?

 

Sherlock

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend of mine,

I cannot believe you, sometimes. Especially when you tell me that you think I would not want you in my life anymore now that I have a family. Truth is that _you are my family_ , and you’ve been before they were.

Things are complicated here, more than I thought it would be. My wife is getting on edge each time I leave the room. I get looks when I come back too late, reprimands when she knows that I’ve been drinking, and sometimes she reads my letters to you and gives me a silence that I know just too well.

I cannot reveal myself but I hope you know that when I say that I miss the cases, in truth I mean that I miss you.

I do. I really do.

London without you is the colour the pavement was – that day.

 

Grey and lifeless.

 

From a friend of yours,

who misses you tremendously

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**August 25 th**

 

Sherlock,

Keep me updated if you ever have the date of your return – I’ll come get you at the airport and we’ll certainly celebrate the end of your project.

 

And of course I’ll still want to solve cases with you. I’ll probably have less opportunity to be around Baker St. with the work and the baby but I’ll definitely make time to see you once in a while. It’ll be just like old times. When you get back, of course.

Mary is doing fine. She loves reading your letters – she tells me it’s as if you’re here with us. She reads mine too: it keeps her entertained since she’s stopped working at the clinic. We started to buy all the nursery stuff for the baby, shopping is never easy on nerves so we’re happy that it’s done now. And thank you: yellow is a really good idea and Mary agrees, so we’re going to buy paint next Monday. We have an appointment with the OB on Thursday, and we might ask if it’s a boy or a girl. For the moment we kept it secret but Mary really wants to know, and I guess she gets to decide around here! She’s getting huge by the way: maybe I’ll send you a picture with my next letter.

 

Take care,

John

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**September 1 st**

 

John,

I estimate that it would take six months to complete the project – and after that, who knows. I won’t be around for a while so you should probably stop worrying about me (or the case).

 

Good to know that Mary is doing fine.

 

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

(if you’re looking for baby names)

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend of mine,

Yellow.

The nursery is yellow.

I love it – it’s happy, warm and positive, unlike everything else in my life currently. I lied when I told you that my wife agreed – in fact, she hated the idea, and I am quite sure it was only because it came from you. In retrospective I do not fully agree with what I did, but I went to the hardware store by myself and bought the brightest yellow paint I could find. She gave me The look when I came back, but she seemed too tired to argue about it. So I painted the nursery all by myself, instead of doing it together and laughing while carelessly splashing paint around like couples would normally do.

It left me thinking.

You know I hid your last letter? I do not want her to get her hands on it, because William is a beautiful name and it left me wondering how reckless it would be to name my child after you. I get it, you know. I can’t tell you that, of course, but your first name with my last name sound nice on my tongue and I’d like to have a reason to say it. Of course, “Sherlock” would be a bit much and she’d get the idea, but _William_ … That could be our secret: only you and I would know what it means and what it could have meant in another universe, or if this one had been kinder to us.

It could have been, only that the universe does not care about John Watson and that the child my wife is carrying is a girl.

 

And I do believe that she would not agree about naming our girl William.

 

From a friend of yours,

who’s still looking for a baby name

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**September 10 th**

 

Sherlock,

We’ve had a scan – we’re pretty sure it’s a girl. We haven’t agreed on a name yet, even though I’d like to go with Katherine but Mary can’t stand it. We’ll figure it out; we still have four good months to go. You probably won’t be there for the birth but when you come back you’ll have to meet her of course.

We’ve officially finished decorating the nursery, so that’s one thing done. Mary is going once a week to pre-natal classes. I went once but it was so dull I decided that she’d be better off without me. I still have a lot to do at the clinic and I’m working as many hours as I can before I take my leave when the baby comes. I’ve also tried reading all the books but that’s another thing I failed to do. I do worry about my parenting skills, but then again everybody told me it should come naturally once the baby is around. We’ll see.

 

And you, how are you doing? I hope you’re not bored too much.

 

John

 

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**September 24 th**

 

Sherlock,

It’s been two weeks now and I still don’t have any news from you. Are you busy or are my letters getting lost in the Serbian postal system? Or the English one, it would be just as plausible.

There is nothing new around here apart from the fact that I took Mrs. Hudson to the restaurant yesterday. She did not talk much, I think that is because she just broke up with the man who owns the grocery store around the corner. Remember him?

 

Tell me a little bit about life at the village!

 

John

 

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

_The handwriting is sloppy, there’s a stain on the paper._

 

**October 5 th**

 

Sherlock!

Seriously, could you answer me?? I mean I write these long letters and then I get a sentence or two from you. I know youre busy but still, ~~Id~~ I like to hear from you.

By th way I forgot to ask but ~~do you would want~~ would you want to be the kid’s godfather? I knw you don’t really believe in that kind of stuff but still it would be nice if you know what I mean cos that means you’d be really like our family and all that. You know just like the nurserys yellow. Very nice..

Id like that so can you please answer me?

 

John

xxx

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear

I found myself in Baker street and I dont know why.. I mean I didn’t plan to sleep in your bed but I needed a break from the wife you know? And I stilld had a key and Mrs wasn’t there so I just went upstairs and then I looked at the your bedroom’s door and I thought why not. I took the time to write a letter first to you cos you havent writtten to me in quite a while and like… are you dead? i hope not.

I know I shoudnlt’ be drinking and I shouldn’t be in your bed but hey what can I do. Mrs H did the dusting but it still feels lifeless but your pillow smells like you and that’s good. I like it. I whis I could take it with me home but the wife would not like it so Im just lying here thinking about you. I wonder how it woul be like to kiss you? I wonder how you taste?

Probably a mix of tea and yellow.

So I lie in your bed and Im sorry because I don t think you’d be happy with me invading you re privacy and doing what Im doing but I cant stop thinking about you and how the universe is not happy with us.

I have this scentific theory – youd like it – that at the beginnign of the universe when everything was atoms well we were two atoms ver close to each other and so we were always meant to find each other because of that link. I know it s corny an all but i really believe this and maybe at the end of the universe when everything has exploded into atoms well my atoms will find your atoms and that way we can live together isnt that something to look for?

but for now I have to go back home because tomorrow my head will hurt and Mrs H cn’t find me like that and I’ve made a mess of your bed sorry

 

from that friend of your

whos searching for your atoms xxx

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**October 6 th**

 

Sherlock,

I am very sorry about my last letter. I do not remember much about what I wrote in it but I was definitely not in a state where I made any sense. Please disregard it – not me asking you to be the child’s Godfather: that was a real question. You’re already part of the family but it would make it official on papers so what do you say?

 

And I’m sorry about how much I’ve written to you lately, I know you’re probably busy and don’t have time to answer to my constant babbling.

 

Take care,

John

 

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**October 23 rd**

 

John,

I am indeed quite busy with how things are turning here. I write to you as much as I can but I do not think I get all your letters. The last one was dated September 10th before the October 6th one. Do repeat the content of the previous letters if there was anything important you wanted to tell me. Unfortunately Serbian post is a bit of a mess.

About your question… It is indeed not really my “thing”, but if you really want too and it makes you happy, then why not.

 

I hope you are doing well.

 

Sherlock

 PS. Sherlock is a girl’s name.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend of mine,

So you haven’t gotten the compromising letter, that’s good. Alcohol makes me bad at hiding and I feel like one of these days I might say it out loud and it would suddenly become very real. But I promised you that I would keep hiding and stay your friend, so that’s what I’ll do. Even if it means hell. I’ll do it for you, if that’s what you want.

I don’t know how we got here but with time I feel like we’re slowly drifting apart. You write less and less, and I keep asking you questions you do not feel like answering. You have a new life with probably new people in it and a returning date you keep pushing further away each time I’m asking you about it.

It hurts. It does.

And there’s something else. I might need your help on this.

 

From a friend of yours,

who’s still in hiding

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**October 31 st**

 

Sherlock,

Nice try, we’re not naming our daughter after you. Mary wants to go with Rosamund. I find it a little bit old-fashioned but she seems to love that name so I might give in. All the compromises we have to make!

Don’t worry, my previous letters weren’t of any importance, it’s even better that way, I guess. Everything is pretty calm around here, apart from Lestrade’s new case. Have you heard about the media owner that got shot in his office? Lestrade’s totally clueless of course, and he keeps telling me how he’d like you to help him solve the case.

Other than that, Mary and I are doing fine. We watched an interesting documentary the other night about the Vatican – there was this famous actor who had a cameo in it and we tried all night to search for his real name, without success, unfortunately!

 

I can’t wait to hear from you,

John

 

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**November 3 rd**

 

John,

I did in fact hear about the shooting you were talking about, but as I have restricted access to television or English newspaper I’d gladly hear a little bit more about it – maybe I’ll even solve the case from here.

Good to know that you’re doing fine. The last days have been calm and I spent them thinking about old times. Do you remember how we solved the Chinese circus case the first year? With the cyphers and all? It feels like so long ago.

 

Sherlock

 PS. Since you always ask what I’m doing: I am currently reading The Beekeeper’s Handbook, it’s such an interesting book. I think I have a hardcopy at 221b, you might want to check it out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend of mine,

Thank god I have you – I’ll definitely answer you as soon as possible, but to clear my mind a little bit I have to write down what happened in order to code that message. So, on Halloween my wife got out of the bed during the middle of the night. She does that every night since she has to go to the bathroom more often now, except that she only came back two hours later, dressed in black and telling me that she was so hungry she went to the Chinese place downtown because of her pregnancy cravings.

I would have believed her, if it had not been for the blood.

There were tiny stains on the side of her face, just beside her hear, stains that would have not been noticed by anybody but someone who had worked on crime scenes. High impact bloodstains.

And in the morning, someone had died.

Now I know that she is my wife and not some assassin, but somehow I would not be entirely surprised. I need to be sure, though, so I’ll get that book and write you that cypher and you’re going to help me understand what’s going on. I’ll have to be cautious, she still reads everything.

 

From a friend of yours,

who’s slightly worried now

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**November 5 th**

 

Sherlock,

I do remember the case. The one we solved around the second week of March? That was fun. Old times indeed. 

I got the book you recommended me – it’s definitely very interesting, I never thought bees were so complex creatures. I guess I’m learning a lot lately and it still surprises me a bit.

Apart from reading and getting ready for the baby, I’m still working crazy shifts at the clinic. Today it was from 7:30 to 18:15 and it’ll be like that until my leave around the 15th of December. I just want to post this letter, go back home and sleep.

Anyway, thank you for the book, it was also a nice occasion to see Mrs. H – she misses you tremendously.

 

John

 

 

_Written by Sherlock on a piece of paper:_

 

02:03 – Did

07:30 – she

18:15 – kill

15:12 – him

 

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**November 9 th**

 

John,

I see that you too are busy. I was recently away from the place where I live, I’ve made it six days in the wild and three at a definitely bad smelling hostel. I am glad to be home by now so I can wash myself and take a break.

I’ll probably go out again around the thirteen (of this month of course), and I should be back by the seventeen. So if you want to write to me it is possible that my answers will be delayed.

Other than that, nothing’s new here.

 

Take care

Sherlock

 

 

_Written by John on a piece of paper:_

 

06:03 – Asked

13:10 – sibling

17:10 – Yes

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend,

She’s not mine. I found it in the silliest way but she’s not mine. I went for my annual check-up and my doctor told me that I can’t have kids. I never could.

She’s not mine.

I am half-relieved, frankly I was not ready to have a child and I think I will never be. But now I sleep in the bed of a liar and possibly an assassin, and I am not sure what to do about it. Your lovely brother has contacted me, but she can’t know. We cannot do anything before the baby is born – even if she does not belong to me.

She’s not mine.

My wife is not mine.

You’re not mine.

That last one hurts the most.

 

From a friend of yours,

always entirely yours

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**November 14 th**

 

Sherlock,

I know Mycroft wanted to meet with Mary, but I do think we should wait until the baby is born, since your know your brother’s way and that might upset her.

We still got two and a half months left and I can’t wait for her to actually be born.

I thought you’d personally help Lestrade with the Magnussen case, but I see I was wrong. Is your work so important that you can’t fly over here for two or three days?

 

Anyway, I’m waiting for news from you,

John

 

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**November 18 th**

 

John,

Unfortunately I still have a lot of work to do around here. I will probably answer less quickly now that you’re in contact with Mycroft, I have to dedicate myself to my work, I am sure you will understand.

 

Best of luck for you and Mary,

Sherlock

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

****

Dear friend of mine,

It’s late and I can’t stop thinking about you again. That is the curse of things left unfinished, I guess. There is a stranger in my house, one that I thought I knew well, and this person is not you.

You know, if you would have asked, all those years ago, I would have said yes.

If you had asked the day we met.

After the pool.

After your return.

At the stag night.

Even then I would have said yes. But she got there first.

Bitterness makes my heart ache in a way I do not quite understand.

There is a stranger in my house who is bearing the child of another stranger. You are the Godfather of a child that does not even exist and I am the one entangled in this mess.

I am the one who stays behind to mend all the pieces together knowing that nothing will ever be the same again.

 

There’s a room that will be forever empty and it is yellow.

From a friend of yours,

or what’s left of him

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**November 23 rd**

 

Sherlock,

Good news – amazing news. Mary gave birth. The baby came two months early but she’s fine, she’s safe and she’s with her father – we finally found him: it was David. You remember him from the wedding, right? Mary told me that it was him, and he accepted to take the child. He actually seemed to be in heaven when I gave her to him. She’s better off this way, I don’t think I could ever be a good father to her.

About Mary – she died. I am bloody relieved and somehow I should feel awful about this but I do not. The birth was a difficult one because the baby was premature, it was full of complications and she did not manage to make it long after that. Mycroft was there with the police, of course, and so she confessed on her deathbed that she had indeed killed Magnussen because he had information about her past as a freelance assassin in America. Can you believe _that_? And I married her! Definitely the worst mistake I ever made. She confessed and she said that Mary was not even her real name, that she stole it from the grave of a stillborn, yet she did not confirm her real identity. It’s fine. She does not deserve to have her name on a grave.

I did not bother saying anything but something along the lines of “Go to hell” just before she died. I was the last thing she saw and it was the last thing she heard. Good.

 

Now that this is done, do you mind if I come to Serbia to help you out with the work? You could use another hand and I’d be glad to escape London for a few days and see you again.

 

John

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**November 28 rd**

 

Sherlock,

Can you confirm that you received my last letter? I’m sorry I’m writing to you again but I can’t wait to hear from you. Everything worked out in the end and I’d like very much to see you, if you’re okay with that.

 

Please answer quickly,

John

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**December 1 st**

 

John,

I am glad to hear that everything worked out for you. The child will be definitely fine and safe with David – I am sorry that she cheated on you but from what I can remember he seemed like a fine man.

I am also sorry about your loss. You seemed content about letting her go but you will probably regret what you said once things will have calmed down. She was your wife, after all.

I do not wish for you to come to Serbia, I am still working a lot and I think that your implication would only slow me down.

 

Sherlock

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend of mine,

I am sorry everything went the way it did. I guess there is a right time for epiphanies and mine always seem to come too late.

For everything that I have done, but mostly for everything that I did not do, I am deeply sorry. You still think that I loved her when I have loved no one but you. That’s the only truth, and if you do not understand that, then it is because I have failed you. I understand that you do not want to see me now, and maybe never again. I shall accept your decision, even if it pains me. Even if I think you’re wrong. You have the right to say no to me.

The regrets that I have have the color of your eyes and the sound of your voice: I shall bear them for the rest of my days.

Know that I hate everything about this situation: from the distance between us to the meaningless words we keep exchanging from time to time. I hate that we both know about all the _what ifs_ yet we are not brave enough to talk about them.

Your silence is no silence and that’s why it hurts: it’s the scream of every memory that is now slowly fading away, of everything that has to be put to rest.

Nothing dies without putting up a fight, my dear.

 

From a friend of yours,

and all he could have been

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Addressed to the Posta Srbije, Klococevak, Bor District, Serbia_

 

**December 6 th**

 

Sherlock,

It’s okay if you don’t want me to come, I’ll just stay in London. I have extended my flat rent but I’ll be soon searching for another place since I can’t live in a place with so much history between Mary and I. I know you have your doubts but I truly hated her in the end. She made my life impossible and she was a murderer, that’s not something I will forget easily. I’m glad she’s gone.

 

I hope you are doing fine,

John

 

 

_Addressed at 13, Holland St., Kensington, London_

 

**December 12 th**

 

John,

It’s okay, I believe you.

 

There’s nothing new around here.

 

Sherlock

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Unsent_ **

 

Dear friend of mine,

I do wonder how and when we got it wrong. I know what you’d say but I don’t know if I would agree.

How many times we could have happened but we didn’t? Sometimes I think that once would have been nice but then again I don’t think I would have been able to stay away from you after that.

I went to 221b to collect my last things remaining there that I had left behind in the impossible hope that I might return one day. But since you do not want me, I guess I’d better forever erase from my mind my stay on Baker Street, all those times everything was simpler and better.

To stop the pain I’ll have to stop writing to you, so consider this my last letter. The last one of the series of letters that you will never see and never read, because they represent everything I ever wanted and everything I lost in the end.

I’ll stay that friend of yours, I’ll just be that one that you forgot about, that one that you do not think about anymore, that one that could have been more but was never brave enough to say things aloud, only to write and write and write. There’s a pile of letters that I have to burn. I have to let me words be consumed by fire the same way it consumed me.

I could have been that friend of yours that would have booked his ticket to Serbia on the first occasion, that friend of yours that showed up on your doorstep, asking you for one more chance, and maybe even that friend of yours that got to be more than a friend, but I guess that’s not

No.

Sherlock, how can I be sure?

How can I be sure that you don’t want this when I never asked you? All the things I wrote – I meant them – but how can I know where you stand when I haven’t said anything?

 

From a friend of yours

who’s coming to get you

who’s going to tell you everything

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the delay, but I did have to re-work extensive parts of this since I was not totally happy with it. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy it! Beware, this is quite angsty. 
> 
> Also, please forgive my Serbian. I used online traduction, so if anyone actually knows how to speak Serbian reads this and wants to correct my mistakes, feel free to do so! The English traduction will be posted in the end note.

John stopped the car in front of the post office. Night had already fallen on the small Serbian village he took hours to find. He was unsure about what to do next as he had not come up with a sensible plan: he had acted on his heart’s folly and on the impossibly ridiculous hope of making things right. He knew about the probability that Sherlock had never lived around the village and just came to pick up his letters from time to time, but it was still his best shot and if he had to sleep in front of the post office he would do so.

John’s fingers were shaking when he turned the keys in the car, turning it off altogether. He closed his eyes for a moment: whatever he was going to do, he was knowingly going to change the course of things - maybe for the better, probably for the worst. Whatever the outcome would be, it would change him forever. Break him or save him, he did not know yet. Fear and hope were drugging his brain and he was still shaking when he picked up the pack of letters he had tied together and put it in the pocket inside his coat. With growing determination, he opened the door.

It was around 9:00pm and darkness had already fallen on this secluded corner of the world. Sherlock had not lied about how the village was small, and John wondered how the detective could have survived the past months without dying of boredom. There was one paved main road that was morphing into a sand road just after the post office, which seemed to be the last small building of the village. John knew that the chances of the postman still being there at this hour of the evening were very slim, but it was his only chance, after all.

He climbed the four wooden steps and knocked on the door. Nothing. John let out a sigh before looking through the window. There was definitely a shadow moving inside the office, and so he knocked a second time, insistently. Nothing again.

“Come on!” he said out loud, increasingly angry at the universe.

“Zatvoreno!” A voice yelled back at him, but John did not fly through half of Europe to give up at the first obstacle he encountered.

He knocked again and instinctively pushed the door. Surprisingly enough, it was unlocked.

 

The shadow was gone, probably to the back of the office, yet he still went up to the counter.

“I’m looking for someone,” he announced, before thinking about the fact that the man would probably not understand a word of English. Had Sherlock learned Serbian during his stay? It would not have surprised him.

“Trenutak, molim vas, trenutak,” the voice said, and once again John had no idea what it meant.

Finally, an old man appeared behind the counter. With his crooked back and his old hat on his grey hair he seemed way older than John had imagined him through what Sherlock had told him. He seemed stern and definitely pissed off to be disturbed at this hour of the evening. He turned on the light and for the first time John caught a glimpse of the shelves behind the old man. He understood that it was where he would put the packages and letters, yet there was only one old rotting box on the right upper corner. The villagers visibly did not receive a lot of mail.

“I’m searching for someone,” John repeated. “Do you know Sherlock Holmes?”

“Šta?”

“Uh, Sher-lock Hol-mes?” he said once again. Sherlock had probably used an alias while living here, as if he wanted to make things ten thousand times more complicated for John to find him.

Suddenly, as the old man moved and the shelf was not covered in darkness anymore John caught a glimpse of the name of the person he was searching. It was written on a white sticker, probably designing the place he would put letters he received. John’s letters.

He pointed at the sticker. “Sherlock Holmes, sir, I’m searching for him.”

“Ah!” the old man exclaimed, “Mr. Holmes!” he said with a heavy accent.

John’s heart started beating so hard he thought his chest would explode. “Yes, can you tell me where to find him?”

“You?” The man asked, and John understood that he was asking him who he was. It was most likely the only English he knew.

“I’m John Watson. You understand? John Wat-son. I’ve written to Sherlock.” He pointed at the sticker again and mimed someone writing a letter.

Suddenly, the man’s demeanour changed. He turned off the light and started walking to get to the back of the office as quickly as possible. “No Sherlock Holmes! No Holmes! Odlazi! Posta je zatvorena!”

“Please, sir, I really need to find him. I’m his friend! I’m John Watson, I’m his friend!” he begged, but the man had already gone.

John clenched his teeth, trying to swallow his heart back in his chest again. He let an outcry of rage before hitting the counter with his fist. He went outside again and slammed the door, incredibly angry with the old fool who definitely knew more than he had pretended to.

Just like when he had arrived, the main road was completely deserted. Well, John thought, he could not do anything else but to sit there on the steps of the post office and wait for morning. Maybe one villager would know about Sherlock and would tell him where he lives. Or maybe he would meet Sherlock himself on his way to the post office or the grocery store. He had to come out on the main road eventually.

His head in his hands, he waited and waited. The car would have been a much more comfortable solution for the night but John did not want to miss his chance at finding the detective again. Eventually, as his watch ticked the late hours of the night, he heard footsteps in his direction and his heart jumped in his chest.

Deception overtook him when he saw the old man again, pipe in his mouth and hands in his pockets. He sat down beside him and took out a letter out of his pocket. John recognized it as the envelope he had once used to send a letter to Sherlock.

The man pointed to John’s name on the envelope, just above the returning address. “You?”

John nodded, incapable of speaking. It was like seeing a ghost from the past, the proof of everything that went wrong, of everything that was left unsaid. The beginning of the end.

“Imate mnogo napisano,” the old man said with a hint of kindness and understanding in his voice, yet John had no idea what he said, and frankly he did not care that much.

“Idi ulicom i skrenite levo,” he added. It took a moment for John to realize that he was giving him indications. The postman repeated what he said, only now he pointed at the end of the street, shaking his hands many times as to indicate a great distance, and then pointed left. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John got instantly up on his feet. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you!” Instinctively he put his hands in his pockets. A moment later he was running down the street, leaving a very confused smoking postman behind him with ten English pounds in his hands.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John had completely forgotten about the rented car and after a fifteen minutes jogging down the rocky road he asked himself how much distance was left between him and Sherlock. There was the foolish thought that he would be able to tell when he would be close, and that Sherlock would know too, somehow. Of course things did not work that way, he had to remind himself before breaking into a quick walk. Now that he was off the main road the path he was walking on was definitely darker, and for a moment he regretted about forgetting the car behind him. He could always go back and fetch it, but he did not want to waste any more time. Somewhere, in his blurred mind, the thought that he was getting closer and closer persisted.

Now he was nearly completely trailing off in the woods, and it was not reassuring. Did Sherlock finish his work or was it possible that some murderers were lurking behind the trees in the dark? And what kind of wild animals were also looking at him at that very moment? He did not bring his handgun with him, of course, since he had taken a plane, but now he also regretted that. The night definitely seemed to turn disastrous.  

Shivering, John took out his phone. No signal. From where he was he could not reach anybody. Anyway, the only person he wanted to talk to was Sherlock, and he was precisely searching for him. Instead, he decided to use his phone as a flashlight to guide him, revealing each turn in the road. At some point there was a car coming in front of him, but it was no one he knew, and it did not stop. Once again, John was left to himself.

It took him maybe another half-hour of walking before he noticed the indentation in the road going left. He stopped for a moment, finally considering what he was about to do and if he was really going to do it. John closed his eyes, feeling the weight of all of his unsent letters in his pocket. He had to. He had to meet Sherlock and tell him and show him the letters or he would regret it for the rest of his life. There was the possibility that everything would go wrong, but it was worth the risk. Sherlock would know. He had to know to make his decision. It would be fully up to him and John would respect the outcome.

By turning left, John would change the entire course of the universe. Tonight. It had to be tonight.

He took a first step. And then he could not stop.

Once he had turned, a little cottage appeared a good three hundred meters away. There was a lonely light shining in what seemed to be a kitchen, and a little bit of smoke was coming out of the chimney. Above the roof, the sky was clear and the stars were shining.

He noticed a shadow moving in front of the light, and his heart pounded again in his chest. Sherlock was out there, smoking on the porch on the side of the house, unaware of John’s presence.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, and his legs were not answering anymore to the rest of his body as he kept going on faster and faster towards him. “Sherlock!” he finally cried out, and the detective turned around.

From where he was he could see the confusion on his face. “John?”

His legs nearly gave up upon hearing Sherlock saying his name. “Sherlock,” he only repeated.

The man took two steps in his direction, and then started running.

 

What happened next was so fast it came out blurry in John’s mind: he suddenly felt Sherlock’s weight, his whole body against him embracing him into a desperate hug, and John held him back as tightly as he could, to the point he could not breathe anymore. There were some words whispered but he had no idea what was actually being said, as he was overwhelmed with the emotion that Sherlock actually _wanted_ to see him again, too. He needed this just as much. John breathed in Sherlock’s aroma, wanting to remember it forever and letting it fill every corner of his brain. He could not stop speaking, breathing in Sherlock’s ears words he did not understand himself, only to hear the distant rumble of words being spoken back to him. The next thing he knew his lips were moving along the line of Sherlock’s cheekbones, desperately trying to find the source of the deep voice that soothed him, to finally get to know him like that, to seek refuge in his mouth, away from doubts and uncertainty and _oh_ there it was and it tasted like tears, like hot sea water and _yellow_.

John could not explain it but Sherlock tasted yellow.

He felt him kissing back and it was everything he had ever wanted, it was better than any kiss he had had before because it tasted like everything he thought he would never have.

Sherlock pulled back a bit and John could feel him breathing in his mouth as he swallowed the warm air he was receiving, contrasting with the cold of an early December’s night, and each breath was saving him again and again and he was letting it fill his lungs and promising himself to never breath air again if Sherlock had not breathed it first. There was water running down his thumbs that were holding Sherlock’s face and he understood that they were tears, and he moved back a little to get a better look at him so that he could dry them off, but the moment he pulled out Sherlock was gone from his embrace.

He had let out a wail John had never heard before and started running down the path in the cottage’s direction.

John’s heart sank deep in his guts when he understood what it meant. “Sherlock, wait!” he cried out, going after him.

He had to catch up. He could not let him close the door on him, close the door on the possibility of being finally together. John had tasted that possibility and now he could not simply walk away. The buzzing in his head intensified and he never heard himself cry out Sherlock’s name one more time. Fifty meters before the cottage, Sherlock had stumbled and fallen on all fours, his shoulders uncontrollably shaking in sobs.

It gave the time for John to catch up to him, to also get to the ground, rocks ripping his trousers on his knees and scratching his skin underneath, but he did not care because he needed to hold Sherlock, to comfort him, to tell him that everything would be all right now that they had each other. He took him around the shoulders, letting Sherlock’s head fall against his neck, feeling the wetness of his tears. Minutes passed as he rocked him back and forth in the cold of the night, John’s hand softly stroking his dark curls until Sherlock had no tears left to cry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were inside now, in the tiny dirty kitchen where the light flickered. Both were sitting down at the wooden table, Sherlock’s body actually sideways while he stared at the floor, his eyes still red from the crying. His face was now twisted in an expression of anger and hurt, and it pained John more than anything else. His left hand was resting on the table, mere centimeters away from Sherlock’s hands. He could reach in and grab it, but John knew that it right now it would be a mistake. He had to fight back his impulses. He had begged Sherlock to get inside and have a talk, but now that they were there, together, after months of being apart and sharing back and forth meaningless words, it was definitely harder than John had imagined it to be. Of course, he had to start that conversation. Sherlock would say nothing until he would, and he had to be careful to choose the right words. He had only one chance at this.

“I’ve written to you, you know?” His voice broke the silence, yet it sounded terribly wrong. He cringed at his own words, but he kept going anyway. “I mean, not the letters I sent you. I’ve written countless others I could not send you because well… because everything in there was true.”

He took out the pack of letters from his pocket and slid them on the table towards Sherlock. “I guessed you’d want to have a look at them.”

But Sherlock did not look at him: he only stared harder and harder at the grey tiles, sniffing, and John was lost for words. He did not know how to do this. For a moment he considered taking one of the letters out and reading it to Sherlock, but just as he thought of it he was disgusted with himself. He was _there_. He could _tell him_.

“I love you, you know?”

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock nodded. John’s left hand clenched in a fist on his thigh.  

“You don’t have to answer me,” John went on, “but… did you love me?”

Another nod. He felt his throat tighten. “Do you… still? Now?”

Sherlock let out a huffed laugh that was a sniff at the same time. “Of course,” he said hoarsely, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

John stared at him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream, to tell him to look at him once for all, to see that everything was obvious and easy and to stop making it so complicated. Definitely not his best idea. For a moment he contemplated the kitchen. It was simply a kitchen. There was something terrible about it, and John realized it too late.

There were no weapons, no plans, no papers, it was simply a kitchen filled with cans and basic food and an empty box of tea. He opened his mouth, his thoughts running wild in his brain.

“There wasn’t any organization,” John realized. “You just came here after the wedding.”

“There was a mystery surrounding the murder of a politician in the next big city. I asked Mycroft to send me immediately on a case, somewhere far away. It took me three weeks to solve it, and I decided to stay.”

Everything was infinitely worse than John had thought. “You would have stayed her forever… because of me?”

“Not forever. Only until you’d have forgotten about me.”

John let out a nervous laugh. “That was never going to happen.”

For the first time during that conversation, Sherlock looked back at him. “I had high hopes,” he simply stated, painfully smiling to himself.

The words dwelled upon John and it was more painful than getting shot – and he knew exactly how that felt. Silence fell once again as John was trying desperately to find the right thing to say. Sherlock went away because of him, living in this tiny house in the middle of the Serbian forest, probably being bored to the edge of insanity itself in the hope that John would simply forget about him and move on with his life, while he had himself been clinging to the promise of Sherlock’s return. All of his letters appeared to him as selfish and harmful. John had spoken about Mary, about the baby, about London, even asking Sherlock to help him find a color for the nursery when the man _loved him_ and had already planned his entire wedding while his feelings were being crushed over and over again.

“And I already knew Serbian, it was easier that way,” Sherlock added, words slipping from his mouth before he could properly retain them. John smiled a little: Sherlock could never resist showing off a bit, even in the most dramatic situations.

“You’ve been here before? In Serbia? When?” John asked, already pretty sure of the answer he would get.

“After I jumped. It was my last stop to dismantle Moriarty’s network. Two of the three snipers had Serbian origins so it was not a difficult leap to take.” He huffed at his own choice of words.

“Snipers?” John asked again.

“Yes. On that day, Moriarty had snipers on you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I had to jump. It was the only way.”

John felt as if a stone had sunk in his stomach. “You did that to… to save my life?”

“Not only yours, but that’s the general idea.”

So _that_ was why he never told John about faking his death. “Christ, Sherlock, the way I’ve been when you came back… I— I mean, that must have been like torture for you.”

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. “As someone who had experienced both, I can safely claim which one was worse.”

“What?” John exclaimed, straightening up in his chair.

“As I told you, I already knew Serbian. I didn’t learn it the nicest way, though.” Silence fell in the room, John shocked as he was realizing the implications of what Sherlock was telling him. So, he had already been here, and _tortured_?

“When?” he whispered, fearful of actually getting sick. “How long?”

“Roughly two weeks, if I estimated correctly. Mycroft found me, in the end.”

John opened his mouth before closing it again. “What did they do to you?” His voice was shaking, and it was definitely caused by anger.

“They did it mostly the traditional way. They had one or two inexperienced newcomers so there are scars.” He brushed off the question as casually as if he had been talking about weather, and it was that, above everything else, that made John explode.

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock! Why did you never tell me? I’m a doctor, I could have helped when you came back! If you were not so bloody determined about doing everything alone, I could have been there with you in Europe, and obviously preventing you from getting _tortured_! But no, you never tell me anything, and I guess it’s because I’m an idiot or something like that—”

 

It was too late before he realized that his yelling had caused Sherlock to retract even more on his chair. Of course, he was not angry _at_ him, but at the men who did that to him.

John tried to calm down by breathing in slowly. “Please tell me that these fuckers are dead or I’m finding them and taking them out one by one with my bare hands.”

Sherlock smiled, faintly. “They’re mostly dead or imprisoned by now. Mycroft took care of it.”

John sighed. He did not like Mycroft that much, but at least the man knew how to properly deal with certain things.

John sat down properly in his chair, reminding himself to get his temper down. It was all making sense, now. Sherlock had jumped _for him_ , he had gone through torture _for him_ , he had come back _for him_ and John had pushed him on the floor of the Landmark’s and bloodied his nose not that much later. He was so disgusted with himself that he wanted to go outside and get lost in the woods, but he only managed to put his head in his hands. Sherlock had suffered torture in Serbia yet he came back here after the wedding and the irony of it all was not lost on John.

“I’m sorry,” John said, trying to set for a kinder tone in his voice, “Sherlock, I am so bloody sorry about everything I’ve made you go through. I didn’t know about this, and I know that it’s strictly your business but I trusted you to tell me about the important stuff. We’re friends, remember? I know, I know, I didn’t make it easier for you and I fucking hate myself for that. You must have gone through hell and I can’t believe that you did not leave sooner. But please don’t do this to you. Please come back to London. I won’t bother you if you don’t want to ever see my face after tonight. We can forget everything. I’ll look for a flat somewhere else, I’ll move to the north, or to another country – another continent if I have to. I’ll do whatever you ask me to do. I swear it. But you don’t have to stay here a minute longer.” His voice broke, but he kept on talking. He had to finish what he was going to say. “But before you make your decision, please let me finish. I know I don’t have the right to inflict this much pain on you, and I know it’s selfish, but you need to know before you choose to never see me again. I love you, Sherlock. I have always loved you and I always will and nothing will ever change that. Not distance, _nothing_. There was ever only you who mattered, you whom I cared about. I miserably failed to, but I promise it won’t happen ever again. I’ll be there no matter what, I’ll never leave your side and I’ll love you until the end of our days and even more, if that’s possible. If you’ll let me, I will. You only have to say it.”

He tried to take Sherlock’s hand into his own, but he had already moved it away from him. Sherlock was nearly folded in half, his hands grabbing his hair, his knuckles white from the tension.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice also broken. John realized he was crying again, his back slightly going back and forth on the chair.

“Sherlock.” His voice had softened when Sherlock’s name had crossed his lips. “You kissed me earlier. You want me, just as much as I want you. Why can’t you let yourself have this?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, straightening himself on his chair. This time he looked at John, his eyes red, his hair messy and his eyes were full of despair.

“Because… you chose her.”

All it took was four words: four words to destroy John Watson’s life, to cut every thread linking him to the center of the Earth. He felt as if gravity was not holding him back anymore, as if time had stopped in this little kitchen because the universe had decided so. _Because you chose her_. The words resonated in his mind, echoing against the walls of his brain, and he could only hear the following sentence that had been left desperately unspoken:

( _And not me._ )

“You chose her when I was away, and I can’t blame you for that. But you still chose her that night I came back, you chose her when you got engaged, you chose her on your stag night and you chose her the day you married her. You chose her over and over again and it hurt me more than anything else – more than what happened here two years ago. So yes, I stopped choosing you and went away, more for my own sake than yours, because it had to stop. I never once doubted about my feelings, so when I say that I don’t know, it’s because I mean it. I want you more than anything in the world but I can’t keep on being your second choice. You chose her— you had the right to, just like I had the right to choose myself over you. Contrary to what you are implying, I _do_ have some basic sense of self-preservation.”

He had finished talking and put his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. John internally cursed himself. He saw it now. It was deeply unfair: Sherlock blamed him for everything when he lied himself about being dead for two years, before apparently returning on a whim and never telling John that all this time he was doing it for him. Yet it was still John’s fault as he should have been there for him even if he had not known about these facts, because only Sherlock counted. Love, above all, needed proof, and John knew that he had never proven anything to Sherlock. He had hurt him more than anyone else and he kept on doing so even by writing to him when he so wanted to be forgotten. The whole situation was deeply unfair on both sides, but truly John knew he was the one to blame all along when he had decided to stay with a woman he did not love because he feared (and desired) any other outcome. He had not been entirely free in his decision – it was not true that Sherlock had been his second choice, but he could fully see why he would think so.

John opened his mouth before closing it again. He had nothing more to say. Sherlock was right, right about everything, as always, and he had acted on his sense of preservation when he had decided to flee London. Could John really blame him? No. Could he make him change his mind? He could not.

All was lost. If everything ended somewhere it had to be right then, right there, in that tiny kitchen, in the late hours of the night.

John got to the room’s door, and leaned his shoulder against the frame for a second, closing his eyes. His hand clenched and he had the sudden impulse to hit a wall, to get rid of all that energy that was cumulating in him, of all that hope that was not spent in the end. He did not do it, afraid of scaring Sherlock.

He breathed in, collecting his thoughts. He had kissed Sherlock. He had been kissed back. He had been wrong when he had expressed that desire in his letters – doing it once and forgetting about it was simply not humanly possible. He could not return to his previous life when he had nearly gotten everything tonight. He had been serious about his proposal, though. As soon as he would get back to London he would leave again, leaving a letter to Mycroft with Baker Street’s keys, in a plea to get his brother back home. Then, he would go away, and never return.

He took a step. Then, so softly that he could have mistaken it for the breeze tingling his ear, he heard his name.

“John?”

He turned back and stopped breathing, seeing Sherlock staring back at him, his beautiful blue eyes full of tears and his traits expressing a desire John saw only for the first time that night. The question was a simple one.

“Do you think you could chose me tonight?”

“Oh God, yes.”

The next thing he knew, he was on his knees, looking deeply into Sherlock’s eyes and drying the tears off his cheeks with his thumbs.

“I am choosing you tonight, Sherlock, and I will choose you every day again and again for the rest of my life – as long as you’ll let me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a short epilogue that will arrive very soon.
> 
> (About the Serbian used in this fic:  
> "Zatvoreno!": Closed!  
> "Trenutak, molim vas, trenutak.": One moment, please, one moment.  
> “Šta?”: What?  
> "Odlazi! Posta je zatvorena!": Go away, the post office is closed.  
> \\\  
> "Imate mnogo napisano.": You have written to him a lot.  
> "Idi ulicom i skrenite levo.": Go down the road and turn left.)


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the short epilogue to this story. Enjoy!

 

John had fallen on top of Sherlock, the old mattress dangerously squeaking under the weight of their bodies. It was a little bit larger than a single bed but it did not have enough room for the two of them to comfortably lie side by side. John did not mind the proximity in any way, as their legs were tangled and his head was resting on Sherlock’s chest, as they both were still heavily breathing.

A moment passed as John stared at the fire burning in the fireplace, the only source of heath in the room beside their bodies. As the redness of his cheeks slowly started to fade away, John took the blankets in one hand and properly covered Sherlock and himself.

He understood that the silence between them was only a matter of intimacy, of registering everything that had just happened, a shared moment that was more telling than words, anyway. He lifted his head, only to put his chin on Sherlock’s chest to get a better look at his face. He was also lost in contemplation of the flames, the light reflecting on his pale skin. Now that he had had a good look at him, he could notice small changes: he had a bit of stubble John had felt while kissing him, his hair had grown a little bit longer and was definitely messier than usual, his skin was paler – if that was even possible – contrasting with the lovely redness of his cheeks.

When he looked back at him, John could feel his head bobbing up and down as Sherlock’s heart went racing in his chest. He instinctively took his pulse, and he rated it as elevated. He smiled, strangely filled with happiness over the fact that he could make that kind of effect on Sherlock, that he could make his heart race faster and faster, and answer in different ways they had just tried out.

He loved it: hearing Sherlock’s heart beat under his chin, feeling him so alive and oh so close, knowing that the organ people often blamed him of not having was indeed there, in it’s rightful place, witness of his deeply-human fragility.

So John kissed him there, before putting both of his hands upon it and then his chin on top, once again looking in his eyes. _It’s mine now, it’s mine to protect_ , he silently vowed, and Sherlock nodded, understanding.

They lied there in silence for a while as the minutes passed, Sherlock’s heart slowing down and the moon making its way to the late hours of the night. As much as John did not want to leave the warmth of the bed he knew that there was still one last thing to be done as the fire was dying, leaving the room colder by the minute. Under the eye of a questioning Sherlock, he got out of the bed, went to the kitchen to retrieve the pack of letters he had intended for him to read, and without hesitation, threw it all in the fire.

They would stay warm until morning, at least.

He then went back to bed, wiggling his way in his rightful place - between Sherlock and the blankets. Both not wanting to leave anything unsaid, they whispered their way through the early hours of the morning.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I am weneedtotalkaboutsherlock on tumblr. :) Thank you for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. :) Chapter two and the epilogue should be posted this weekend.
> 
> I am weneetotalkaboutsherlock on tumblr!


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